


Red

by starlike (orphan_account)



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Comfort, Dan has a Panic Attack, Drunk!Dan kinda, M/M, Relapse, Self Harm, self hate, why do i do this to my babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 02:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4688894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/starlike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He doesn't get many urges, anymore. Sure, it's always sitting in the back of his mind, waiting until he's vulnerable to speak up and say 'I'm here for you', but he's smarter now than he was when he was 17, he's not reliant on it, doesn't need it to survive like he used to. At least, that's what he thought.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Dan keeps getting triggered, and relapses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> if you'd prefer to read it on tumblr, or reblog it or whatevs: http://plant-hoe-lester.tumblr.com/post/127937689019/red
> 
>  
> 
> _hey pls don't read this if it's gonna trigger u. take care of urself friend. ilu._

He doesn't get many urges, anymore. Sure, it's always sitting in the back of his mind, waiting until he's vulnerable to speak up and say 'I'm here for you', but he's smarter now than he was when he was 17, he's not reliant on it, doesn't need it to survive like he used to. At least, that's what he thought. 

 

***

  
It rears it's ugly head when he fucks up, breaks Phil's favorite mug as he's making coffee at an ungodly hour of the morning and he's hardly gotten any sleep. Every time Dan apologizes – _I'm sorry I'm sorry oh God Phil I'm so fucking sorry_ – his friend smiles reassuringly, bumping his shoulder against his and says "it's fine, really, it was just an accident, it's okay", and he even helps him pick up the mess. Dan's got one of the larger pieces in his hand, sharp and smooth, and he thinks _Christ, can't even make a simple cup of coffee right_ , imagining what the white would look like with a little bit of red on it's edge.  
  
He doesn't know how long he'd been staring at the stupid piece of glass when Phil says, "hey, the logo is still mostly intact!" before plucking it out of his hands and setting it on a shelf. Dan can't help but feel like shit every time he walks past it on his way into the kitchen because what's left of the cup must remind Phil of pleasant times, but all he can think about when he sees it is the fear he'd felt, how terrified he was of himself and his thoughts because they hadn't been dangerous in so long and he doesn't know what's changed, but all he can do is hope that it doesn't happen again soon.

 

***

  
So, of course, it does. Dan's at a shop two weeks later when a fan comes up to him, says that he saved her life, asks for a picture. They take a selfie together and part ways, simple, easy, no big deal, but on the way home he keeps thinking about how he can't remember her name but he can picture the scars on her arms, thick and raised silver lines that took up so much room that there was hardly any skin untouched. The hand that's not holding a shopping bag trembles and a bit of jealousy slips into his head as he thinks, _mine never looked like that, none of mine were ever that bad_ before he shuts off that train of thought entirely, focuses on the steady _one two three four, one two three four_ of his feet against the pavement as he walks until eventually he's home, safe in the comfort of his flat. He and Phil watch a movie before bed and he refuses to think about what happened, praying to any deity or the universe or whoever to just let him forget about it.

 

***

  
And he does, for the most part. He mentally changes the subject every time his thoughts wander that way until they just stop heading in that direction altogether, and everything is good, for a while.  
  
It's nearly one in the morning, and Dan has finally given up on editing for the night. He's going through his Tumblr dashboard, adding a few things to his queue, when a black and white picture of a thin, bleeding wrist stops him dead in his tracks.  
  
He's not stupid, he has his blacklist filled to the brim with any and every possible variation of _trigger warning: self harm_ , and he doesn't follow people that don't tag their posts, let alone post things like _that_ , but apparently God or the never-ending cosmos hates him because it's a _suggested post_ , what the fuck.  
  
He should hit the little "no, thanks" button and keep scrolling, or, better yet, get off the internet and lay down, but he can't stop staring. The photo sends Dan back to a time when long-sleeves were a constant, when every shower stung like Hell, and every small space between or behind anything was a potential hiding place for his tools. It makes him remember the familiar burn of irritated skin, and the simultaneous guilt and relief he was flooded with every time he brought a piece of steel to his wrist, his thigh.

  
_I can just look at them_ , he reasoned, mouse hovering over the URL. _I'm not gonna do anything. I'm just looking._  
  
By the time 3:30 rolls around Dan has stalked four different blogs and six tags before he finally decides to sleep. After meticulously cleaning out his browser history and turning everything off, he gets comfortable under the covers and falls asleep to the thought of burning, red copper.

 

***

  
Phil has gone to visit his parents for a few days and Dan is fucked.  
  
The biggest thing that had been keeping him from doing anything stupid was the idea of Phil noticing something, of Phil finding out, but now that he had the house to himself it was way too easy to justify a relapse.  
  
Surprisingly, his best friend didn't know anything about the habit. When they'd first met in 2009, Dan didn't bring it up, afraid that it would scare Phil off, and it just kind of... stayed that way. There have been a few times that it's almost come out, though, like when they've watched shows that had cutting scenes and he'd stare anywhere but at the TV, bite his lip and try not to pay attention, and Phil would look at him like he was a forensic analyst examining a piece of evidence, or the time that he'd asked about the only noticeable scar on Dan's wrist, the one from when he'd went a tad too deep but was too scared to get stitches, and had looked somewhat unconvinced when he said that he'd gotten it from a broken window.  
  
It was those small, too-close moments that kept him from doing anything that might make Phil think that something was wrong. But now, alone, Dan was sitting on his bathroom floor with a pair of scissors and a brand-new package of cheap, disposable shaving razors in front of him, coming up with a million excuses. _'It's cold and rainy, no one's going to question the hoodies. They'll fade quickly, it'll be like they were never there. It's been so long, I need this.'_ Nodding to himself, he ripped open the bag, shaking as he got to work demolishing a razor. It was like a game: cut up the plastic casing to get to the prize inside. Careful not to slice the pads of his fingers, he tried using his nails to break open the last of it, not wanting to bend and mess up the blade.  
  
Once he finally managed to pop off the top, he shook the thin piece of metal out onto his palm, grabbing it between his thumb and pointer finger gently, the movement ingrained in his muscle memory. At first he just lightly dragged the edge of it over his skin, not pressing, not trying to do anything just yet, only.. feeling.  
  
The first one was a baby scratch, on the side of his arm, away from his veins. It dispensed a single, small bead of blood that he let dry before he cut again, a little faster this time, closer to the center. This one welled up after a moment, dripping down some as he tilted his wrist slowly. The third and final one, he decided, was quick and hard, directly in the middle. He hissed as it stung, and quickly grabbed some of the paper towels he had waiting, pressing it against his arm. Dan was still shaking, but he couldn't tell if it was from adrenaline or nerves.

After he'd cleaned up his mess and his wounds, leaving no trace of anything that had happened besides the red-lined tissues in the waste basket and the newly placed box under his sink that held everything in it, just in case this happened again (he wasn't planning anything, but– just in case), he got comfortable in bed and promptly passed out, exhausted.

***

 

Sipping at his bitter coffee, he unlocked his cell phone and headed straight for his countdown app, resetting the ' _days since i've ///_ ' counter from 126 days ago to 0 with a frown. He didn't feel particularly bad about it last night, but now that he's slept on it, he realized that he was being rash, and the stinging in his arm reminded him that he was paying the price.

 

Disabling 'Do Not Disturb' mode, like he'd meant to do earlier, he quickly received two missed texts.

 

_From: Phil_

_10:04 PM_

 

**my parents messed up their anniversary vacay date, so, apparently i'm coming home early. hope u haven't sold all my stuff yet. :p**

 

_From: Phil_

_10:37 PM_

 

**see u tomorrow! don't stay up too late. my train gets in at 8 so i'll see you then. night, dan.**

 

Looking up at the time, he _totally didn't_ squeak when he saw that it was 8:12. Shit shit _shit_. He thought he was going to get four days, not _8 hours_. Panicking, he jumped up, running to his bedroom to put on a baggy shirt that was long enough to grab the sleeves and keep them from riding up. Double checking his bathroom to make sure that nothing was out of the ordinary, he let out an anxious sigh. Of course this would happen to him, the one time he slips up in months. Fuck, he was so _stupid_.

 

The sound of the door being unlocked shook him out of his thoughts, making him spaz for a moment before throwing himself down on the couch and picking up his laptop, opening facebook just to do something with his hands.

 

Stumbling into the living room, Phil looked sleepy and disgruntled. His glasses were crooked on his nose, his headphones hanging around his neck, and he dropped his bag on the floor and his body on the sofa the moment he was close enough. Dan had to stop himself from smiling fondly. “You look like shit,” he said instead, happiness in his voice anyways.

 

“Yeah. Good to be home,” he responded-- or, well, groaned into the cushion.

 

“Why didn't you just wait, stay at your parents for another night and then take the train back today?”

 

“Dunno. Thought I'd be able to sleep _on_ the train, but I got seated next to the most talkative person on the planet, it was awful,” he said, moving his face to the side so that I could see his pout. “I mean, she was nice, but I was _so tired._ I got a couple hours, though, when she got off before me. It could have been worse.”

 

“You could've just told her to shove off.”

 

He made a low, protesting noise. Dan scoffed. “Are you gonna take a nap?”

 

He sighed, reaching for the TV remote, turning on Netflix. Nap it was, then.

 

As Phil snuggled into his favorite spot on the sofa, himself only a seat away, Dan watched an episode of Buffy with half an ear, paying more attention to the figure breathing softly next to him.

 

Laughing quietly, he shifted so that he could take off Phil's glasses, setting them on the side table. “You're going to get them broken that way,” he whispered to the quiet room. The sleepy boy grumbled, burrowing deeper into the pillows.

 

 

***

 

He doesn't remember who's idea it was. When Phil slept longer than expected, they both edited videos or blogged until it was late enough for them to order takeout, and wine got incorporated into dinner, somehow.

 

That's how they ended up here; an almost drunk Dan with his head in a slightly buzzed Phil's lap, his hands combing through the brunette's hair.

 

He tried to worm his way further into his lap, like he wasn't quite close enough. “I think I might love you.”

 

His hands didn't even stutter. “I think you've had too much.”

 

Dan sighed. “No, like, I think I love you when I'm sober, too. You make me really happy all the time and it's weird. It's a good weird, though. You'd,” he hiccuped, “you'd think that if your stomach did somersaults every time someone did something normal but, in a really cute way, like yawning or sleeping or sticking their tongue out while they're concentrating and… what was I saying?”

 

He could feel Phil shaking with soft laughter underneath him, and that was enough to make him laugh, too. He was still giggling when he reached for his glass and he, naturally, spilled wine on his shirt. “Shit.”

 

“C'mon, dork, lets get you to bed,” Phil smiled, and wow he had such a nice smile. Dan said as much, and it only made his grin grow as he helped him up.

 

“Nooo,” he whined. “You're smiling and we're laughing and I've missed this, I don't wanna sleep.”

 

“Missed what? We laugh all the time,” he argued, leading them down the hall.

 

“Not worrying about every little stupid thing, feeling like there's nothing wrong for once. This is too nice to waste on being unconscious.” Dan _hmph_ 'd.

 

“What's been wrong?” Phil quirked an eyebrow, putting Dan's arms above his head, grabbing his shirt by the bottom and pulling upwards.

 

“I dunno, it's like the universe just wants to me to be sad. Make it stop, Phil, it's bullying me,” he pouted, grabbing at Phil's hand.

 

“I'll have a stern talk with it,” he nodded seriously, intertwining their fingers. Phil bowed his head, and his forehead creased.

 

“What? No, go back to smiling.”

 

“Dan, what happened to your arm?”

 

The boy in question gaped like a fish for a moment, his intoxicated brain not working quick enough for his liking. “I fell.”

 

“You fell and _cut_ yourself?”

 

Dan flinched at the wording. “It was a mistake,” fell out of his mouth. “I mean– it was an accident.”

 

“What happened, though? How'd you manage that?”

 

“I– I don't–,” Dan grappled for words, his chest constricting. “I don't remember? It's– it's not a big deal. Really, Phil.”

 

“Dan..,” he said suspiciously, pulling their clasped hands and bringing his arm under the light of the lamp.

 

He tried to pull away, gasping for air and eyes burning. “I– I can't, please, just. I couldn't– I was drowning, it was just the three, I thought you were gonna be gone longer, _I'm sorry_.” He realized that that probably hadn't been the best thing to say when Phil's eyes filled with a weird mix of hurt and anger.

 

“Did you do this to yourself?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper, incredulous.

 

Instead of answering directly, Dan just apologized, again and again.

 

“Dan, stop. You need to calm down, okay?” Phil encouraged, reaching for his other hand.

 

“I'm sorry, please don't leave, I'm getting better I promise, please, please–” he sobbed, taking in unstable half-breaths. It felt like there was hot lead in his chest and he couldn't get enough air.

 

“You're okay, you're safe, you need to breathe for me, okay? C'mon, breathe with me,” he said softly, gripping and releasing his hands in time with his deep breaths until Dan wasn't struggling for oxygen anymore.

 

“I'm–,” he stopped, not knowing if he was going to say _sorry_ , _dizzy_ , or _thirsty_.

 

“Sit down, yeah?” He guided him back to the bed. “I'm gonna go and–”

 

Dan's hand shot out, grabbing his shoulder. “ _No_ , please, stay.”

 

“I'm just getting a glass of water. I'll be right back, I promise.”

 

He sniffled, dropping his hand and watching him leave. Quickly, he got under his blanket, wrapping it around himself as tight as possible.

 

He was back in a flash, putting the glass on the nightstand and sitting on the edge of the bed as Dan looked at him through his eyelashes. “Sorry I freaked out,” he mumbled.

 

“Sorry I made you have a panic attack.”

 

He dug his hand out from under the duvet and grabbed hold of Phil's. “Don't worry, it was a long time coming. I kinda feel like a weight's been lifted off my chest.”

 

“Yeah? That's good. You should drink some water, though.”

 

He sighed, heaving himself upwards and reaching for the glass. Glancing over, he could see Phil eyeing his wrist. He decided to wait until he said something first to speak, though. Luckily, he didn't have to wait long.

 

“How long?”

 

Dan bit his lip. “When I was 17, someone told me that this rock on the ground was sharp enough to cut me. I didn't believe them, so I slid it across the back of my hand a few times, and when it did I kind of just… kept going, kept the rock, did it more after that. I didn't even know what I was doing for a few months, until I'd had a shit day at school and I just kind of automatically reached for the stupid thing.”

 

His face darkened. “All this time, and you haven't said anything? God, how have I not noticed?” That last question was directed more towards himself, muffled by his palm as he hid his face in his free hand.

 

“I didn't want to gross you out, or make you hate me. Thinking about it now, it seems kind of irrational. I'm so sorry, Phil.” He took another drink. “Really, though, I meant what I said. I'm getting better.”

 

He rubbed his thumb gently over the scabbing lines. “I'm here. You know that, right? I'll always be here.”

 

“Of course I do. I won't keep things like this from you anymore.” Dan paused. “Are we done with the sad stuff, for tonight? 'Cuz I'm exhausted, and if you don't come up here and cuddle with me I think I might literally die.”

 

With a small smile, Phil took off his glasses, moved the covers back and climbed in, sitting back and letting him wrap up against his side and on top of his chest.

 

“Y'know, that wasn't the _only_ thing I really meant tonight.”

 

“You're still drunk,” he said into his hair.

 

“Then I'll just tell you again in the morning.”

 

 

 


End file.
